Tool academy

In the 30+ minutes it takes me these days to run 3.1 miles, I have ample time to plan and ponder. Thankfully I have a great music mix on my iPod to keep pace and motivation, but I get a little bored sometimes on the treadmill, even with Lady GaGa for company. I try to watch TV, but even when it's a rerun of "The Office," reading closed captions requires too much concentration at 5 mph. So instead, I find myself people watching. And judging. And mocking.

See, when I exercise, I don't try to be cute. I exercise so that I can look cute later, after I've taken a shower and my face stops looking like a tomato. I don't perspire; I sweat. Under my hairline and my armpits. Between my fat rolls. And especially where my two cheeks meet. There ain't nothing pretty about that.

So I don't understand why folks come to the gym dressed to the nines or generally avoiding exercise. It's call a WORK out, people. If it were easy, everyone would look like Gisele. (Coincidentally, I saw a pic of her leaving the gym the other day and guess what... she was sweaty! Coincidence?)

Tonight some dude who resembled Dax Shepherd jumped on the adjoining treadmill about one mile into my run. He was dressed head to toe in tight black and red Nike gear, like Lance Armstrong sans the bike. He was carrying an aluminum water bottle, iPod, BlackBerry, magazine, and Seth Godin novel.

Anyone who knows me would agree that I have a serious addiction to my iPhone. It's within three feet of me at all times, except when I'm working out. Partly because I barely have enough breath to run, much less carry on a conversation, but also because that's the one hour a day when I'm not sleeping that I have peace. And really, who can ponder Tribes when you're on the treadmill?

After six minutes of stretching and arranging his wares on the treadmill, he turned on the fan to blow his frosted-tip mane in the breeze, and then proceeded to run 2.5 miles per hour. For four minutes. Then he walked two or three minutes more before resuming his slow jog. Interval training, dude? For what, the senior Olympics? There was an 80 YO woman who got on the bike behind me and smoked his pansy butt.

Sampson finished his leisurely jog without messing up his hair, while I mopped sweat from parts of my body no one should see, and we left the gym at the same time. He climbed into his Element with the bumper sticker reading "Give Peace a Chance," and I rolled my eyes.

Go ahead and drink from your aluminum bottle, Granola Boy. I'll sweat my way to smaller pants. And I shall mock you.